


We all fall down

by oliv8



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF John Watson, Big Brother Mycroft, Cocaine Use, Drug Use, First Kiss, Guns, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Angst, Panic Attack, Reichenbach AU, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock Needs A Hug, Torture Mentioned, Violence, coping with drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 22:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12045663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliv8/pseuds/oliv8
Summary: What if it wasn't Sherlock that jumped? What if Sherlock had gone to check on Mrs. Hudson and John had been baited to that rooftop? In this alternate storyline, John Watson sacrifices himself for his friends, leaving Sherlock to cope with the loss of his best friend, the man who helped him feel again.Note: This story begins after Sherlock sends John away to check up on Mrs. Hudson. Instead of going to the rooftop, Sherlock checks in on the woman he almost sees as a mother. Hopefully the rest is self-explanatory :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so this is my first fan-fiction that I'm publishing but I have a couple dozen more Johnlock stories stored away. I'm completely open to some constructive criticism and I hope you enjoy this story! Let me know if you'd be interested in some of my other (less-angsty) Johnlock fics :)

John was rushing to be at Mrs. Hudson’s side when his phone rang. He didn’t check the caller ID before answering and he completely stopped in his tracks when he heard the voice of Jim Moriarty.  
  
“Johnny, my friend,” Jim’s smooth voice purred. “How is everything with Mrs. Hudson? Or have you not gotten to Baker Street yet?”  
  
John took a deep breath through his nose. “I assume you’re watching me, so you know full well that I’m on my way. If she’s hurt, Moriarty, I swear to God…”  
  
“Oh, Johnny, she’s fine. But Sherlock won’t be unless you meet me on the roof of St. Bart’s immediately.” And then Jim hung up.  
  
John didn’t even hesitate. He rushed to the roof of St. Bart’s and found Moriarty dressed in an expensive suit, looking as poised as ever.  
  
“John, my dear, thanks so much for making it. Now I have a deal to make with you,” Jim said, smiling.  
  
“Why the hell would I want to make any sort of deal with you?” John growled, approaching the man. He pulled out his sig and pointed it against Jim’s head. “Give me one reason not to shoot you in the head right now, after all you’ve done to Sherlock, after all you’ve done to me.”  
  
Jim grinned and pressed his forehead against the barrel of the gun. “If you shoot me, Sherlock dies. The only way your dear detective lives is if you take that gun and kill yourself. I have men trained on Sherlock, your land lady and your detective inspector friend. If you shoot yourself, they won’t die. My men will only shoot if they don’t hear a gunshot and if they don’t see your body drop to the ground. And no tricks, Johnny. If Sherlock doesn’t grieve for you, he dies. It’s very simple.”  
  
John clicked off the safety on his weapon and said, “or you can call off your men and I’ll let you live.”  
  
“Oh, my dear doctor, we both know you wouldn’t risk it. You think Sherlock is some sort of hero, the protagonist in this story, and you don’t want to live in a world without him. Honestly, I don’t care if you die or if Sherlock does. Either way Sherlock suffers and I win.” And then he pulled out his own weapon and shot himself in the head.  
  
John stood there in shock for a few seconds and then realized he had to do something. Sherlock couldn’t die and neither could Greg or Mrs. Hudson. Those were practically all of his friends and he couldn’t live in a world without them.  
  
John took a deep breath and pressed his gun to his chest, just an inch away from his heart. Maybe he would survive the shot and convince the gunmen or maybe he would die. Either way, Sherlock would be saved and that was enough of a reason for John, so he pulled the trigger and fell to the ground.  
  
Meanwhile, Sherlock had contemplated leaving Mrs. Hudson in John’s care but he couldn’t think of abandoning the woman who had been like a mother to him. So he went to Baker Street to find Mrs. Hudson to be perfectly fine and John nowhere in sight. A terrible feeling resonated in the pit of his stomach as he rushed back to St. Bart’s, which was the last location John’s phone was. He arrived at the hospital just in time to hear a gunshot and watch John’s body fall over.  
  
Sherlock yelled and he couldn’t get to the roof fast enough. When he threw open the door to the roof, the first thing he noticed was Moriarty, dead from a head wound. And then he heard a gasp and he turned towards John, who was covered in blood. There was a bullet wound to his chest.  
  
Sherlock ran over to John and fell to his knees. He pulled John’s head into his lap and pressed his scarf to the wound. “John, what happened?”  
  
John took a shallow, shaky breath and said, “he was going to kill you, Greg and Mrs. Hudson if I didn’t. The world needs Sherlock Holmes, it doesn’t need me.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head roughly and tears fell from his face. “But I need you, John.”  
  
John smiled up at Sherlock weakly. “You never needed me, Sherlock. You’re brilliant with or without me.”  
  
Sherlock just continued shaking his head and pressing harder on the gunshot wound. “John, you’re not allowed to die, okay? Someone is coming, I told the nurses on my way up. You’re going to be alright.”  
  
John reached up and squeezed Sherlock’s hand, rather weakly. “Sherlock, will you do me a favour?”  
  
“Anything, John. Just name it.”  
  
“It’s silly, but will you kiss me? I’d hate to die without knowing what it’s like to kiss you.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t even hesitate, he leaned down and pressed his shaking lips to John’s. The tears were now streaming freely onto John’s face but he didn’t care. He didn’t stop kissing the doctor until John was no longer kissing back. Then he pulled away and whispered, “John?”  
  
Sherlock took John’s pulse just as nurses and doctors streamed onto the roof and he felt nothing, not even the smallest flutter.  
  
“No, no, no, no,” Sherlock mumbled, pushing harder on John’s chest. He wanted to start chest compressions but that could cause more bleeding and there was already so much blood.  
  
As the doctors took John away, Sherlock couldn’t move. John, his soft, perfect doctor, was dead. He had killed himself so that Sherlock could survive, but how could Sherlock Holmes live without John Watson?  
  
Sherlock didn’t know how long he was kneeling on that roof but Greg eventually showed up and rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
“Sherlock, they brought John into surgery, but they weren’t able to get a pulse again once the bullet was out. They called time of death,” Greg said softly, swallowing back his own grief.  
  
“What time?” Sherlock said, staring down at the blood on his hands. He could still feel John’s lips on his own. Why would John want to kiss him before dying? That made no sense. They were friends. John was straight.  
  
“4:53pm. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock finally looked up at the detective inspector and, when he did, he also noticed the presence of a forensic team. They were prancing around him like he was about to break and, admittedly, maybe he was.  
  
Sherlock stood up and grasped his bloody scarf in his hands. Without another word, he went down to the surgical area and he found John’s body. He looked peaceful.

  
Sherlock pressed his fingers against John’s shoulder wound, the one he had gotten years before in Afghanistan, and he confirmed, just by the texture of the scar, that this really was John’s body. His doctor was dead.

  
Sherlock left the room and went back to Baker Street. Even as Mrs. Hudson questioned him for John’s whereabouts, he just continued upstairs to his secret stash of a 7% solution of cocaine. He was barely seated when he pushed the needle into his arm and escaped the reality of his best and only friend being dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock continues dealing with the aftermath of John's death, John faces his own reality and the price he has to pay to keep his friends safe. After all, John Watson doesn't want to live in a world without the brilliancy of his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it to Chapter 2!! Thanks for continuing to read and I hope you enjoy this chapter. As always, I'm open to commentary on the chapter and any comment is pretty much guaranteed to make my day :)  
> P.S - Sorry if the formatting is a bit weird. I'm learning AO3 slowly but surely!  
> ~

                  As Sherlock escaped reality, John was gasping awake. He wasn’t on the roof anymore, he was in the back of an ambulance, strapped down. And Mycroft was sitting beside him.

                  “Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said as John struggled against his binds. “I know you’re confused right now, but I’ll explain. I had Mr. Moriarty’s phone bugged and I heard your entire conversation with him. I instructed the doctors who treated your bullet wound to inject you with a drug that would considerably slow your heart-rate and breathing. Although they called your time of death at 4:53, you never died. Once Sherlock confirmed that you were truly dead, he left and I had my men retrieve your body.”

                  “Sherlock thinks I’m dead? Why the hell would you let him think that?!”

                  “Because, unless Sherlock and the others mourn your death, my brother is dead and you shot yourself for nothing.”

                  “So now what? How long do I have to stay hidden?”

                  “I need you to do better than that, Dr. Watson. I need you to disassemble Moriarty’s network from the inside. Until that is done, my brother and your friends won’t be safe.”

                  “But will Sherlock be okay if he thinks I’m dead?” John asked hesitantly. He wished he was surprised by how Mycroft responded.

                  “You were just his flatmate, John. He’ll get over it.”

                  And with that, John’s heart ached. Even if Sherlock didn’t give a damn about John, the doctor still needed to disassemble the network. Because Moriarty was right; John Watson didn’t want to live in a world where Sherlock Holmes was dead.

                  Once John was moved to a temporary location, Mycroft hurried to 221B Baker Street. He had been lying to ease John’s mind; he knew exactly how affected his little brother would be.

                  After arriving at Baker Street, he found Mrs. Hudson in tears after being told of John’s death by the detective inspector, but he couldn’t be bothered to deal with that. He just continued upstairs, where he found his brother unconscious with a syringe on the floor next to him. Only seconds later, the DI walked in to find the same sight.

                  “No, not him too,” Greg exclaimed, rushing over to Sherlock’s body. Luckily, he found a steady, if not fast, pulse under his fingertips. He was about to call for an ambulance when Mycroft stopped him.

                  “I’ll take care of this. I’ve been here before,” Mycroft said, very melancholy.

                  For the next few days, Mycroft only left Sherlock’s side to confirm John’s next move and to get Anthea to set up a flight for him. A duplicate body was to be placed in the coffin for John’s funeral but Mycroft still wasn’t sure he could get his little brother in a well enough state to attend the service.

                  The day of the funeral, he left Sherlock in Mrs. Hudson’s care and she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

                  “Sherlock Holmes, I know your heart is breaking and you don’t want to leave this flat. I know that you don’t want to live in a world without him, but you have to go to the funeral. You’re the only person who mattered to him and you know that,” Mrs. Hudson said, desperately.

                  “John Watson is dead,” Sherlock said quietly. “He’s indifferent to whether or not I view his dead body once more.”

                  “That’s not the point, Sherlock. He was your best friend and you need to do this. You need to know that no matter how much cocaine you do, he’s not coming back and he wouldn’t want you to live like this.”

                  “You’re right about one thing, Mrs. Hudson. I don’t want to live in a world without John. And I can’t go out there and pretend to be alive because I’m dead inside. When John died, I died with him. Nothing matters without him.”

                  “Then, please, sweetheart, come to the funeral for me. I can’t do this alone.”

                  That was what ended up getting Sherlock to the funeral. He put on black slacks, a black shirt and a black jacket and he followed her out to catch a cab. He didn’t bother with his Belstaf; it felt incomplete without the scarf and the scarf was stained with John’s blood.

                  Throughout the funeral, Sherlock couldn’t stop staring at the casket. He couldn’t bring himself to look inside and see the lifeless body of his friend. He only looked away from the casket when Mrs. Hudson nudged him. Apparently, as John’s flatmate and best friend, he should be the one to say a few words about the doctor.

                  As he walked up to the podium, he felt nothing. Even as he began to speak, his tone didn’t waver.

                  “John Watson was a doctor and a soldier,” he started and then realized it was too impersonal. John deserved better.

                  He continued, “but he was so much more. He was clever, more clever than he knew, and he was my best friend. He had told me this in the past, that I was his best friend, but I never believed him. It made no sense. Who would want to be my friend, let alone my best friend?”

                  Sherlock paused as he felt wetness on his cheeks. He was crying, but he continued speaking.

                  “A few days ago, I lost the best and only friend I’ve ever had, but everyone else lost so much more. We didn’t deserve John Watson, not one of us. But he meant something to each of us and I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that we met him. He was a doctor, a soldier, but he was also the bravest man I’ll ever know.”

                  Sherlock took a moment and he stared out at all of the people in the church. He didn’t recognize 80% of the crowd. He wanted to scream at them, tell them that they hadn’t seen John in two years and why the hell were they here, but he didn’t have the energy. So he just returned to his seat by Mrs. Hudson, tired.

                  As the church cleared out, Sherlock remained, even as Mrs. Hudson left. But before she parted and went her own way, she patted Sherlock’s arm and said, “John would’ve loved your speech, Sherlock. And I’m proud of you for making it.”

                  Sherlock continued sitting in the pew until his brother grasped his shoulder and said, “it’s time, Sherlock. They need to bury him.”

                  Sherlock nodded, hardly even hearing the words, only thinking of the cocaine solution back at his flat. The work didn’t matter, his few remaining friends didn’t matter, only the drugs did. John Watson was gone and so was any light left in Sherlock’s life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to return to the Work but finds it difficult without the presence of his dear doctor. Meanwhile, John is busy being a BAMF and trying to work his way back to Sherlock's side.
> 
> Warning: Mention of torture in this chapter, but not in any bloody or terrible detail. Mention of drug use as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read! Here's chapter 3. Feel free to leave me some comments and some kudos if you're so inclined :)  
> Also, bold text = text messages. I don't know how to change the font on here.

                  The days following John’s funeral were a complete haze to Sherlock. He injected solution after solution until even his dealers wouldn’t sell to him anymore. He suspected Mycroft was responsible for this and so he went to Mycroft’s work and freaked out.

                  “How could you do this to me? First, you fail to protect the one person who matters to me and now you cut off my supply. How am I supposed to live without John Watson?” Sherlock yelled as Mycroft came into sight.

                  “You lived before him and you can live again without him. Focus on the work, like you did before. I’m sure Detective Inspector Lestrade could use your help,” Mycroft replied, calmly.

                  Sherlock wanted to yell more, he really did. He wanted Mycroft to become so embarassed that he gave in and reactivated Sherlock’s supply, but he was just so tired. And maybe a case would help if he couldn’t have the drugs. It turns out, he couldn’t have been any more wrong.

                  Sherlock managed to track Lestrade’s phone to a crime scene and, when Greg saw him, he visibly paled.

                  Greg approached Sherlock slowly and said, “are you sure you’re ready to be here, Sherlock? It’s only been a week.”

                  Sherlock rolled his eyes and began deducing things about the body in front of him. He knew he had solved the crime perfectly in less than five minutes, that wasn’t what put him off. What put him off was the silence that followed his deductions.

                  Sherlock turned around, confused. He was ready for John to tell him that he was brilliant or that he had done something that was a bit not good, but he heard nothing. Just silence. And then he realized why and he hurried off of the crime scene, with Greg on his heels.

                  Sherlock had experienced panic attacks before in his life but this one came out of nowhere. He hadn’t heard the blood rushing to his head or an increase in his pulse. Or maybe he had just attributed those symptoms to the rush of solving a crime. All the same, Sherlock crouched down in an alley and buried his head in his hands, gripping his hair tightly as he struggled to breathe.

                  Greg crouched down too, right in front of Sherlock, and said, “just breathe, Sherlock. I’m going to count to three and you’re going to take a deep breath in and hold it. Then I’m going to count to three and you’re going to release it. Okay?”

                  Greg did this for a few minutes until Sherlock seemed to be relatively calmed down and then he rested his hands on the younger man’s shoulders.

                  “I know you miss him, Sherlock. I do too. But he wouldn’t want you to give up the work and he wouldn’t want you filling your veins with drugs. It’s going to take some time to deal with this loss, but you can’t do that if you’re high. Maybe you should visiting a counsellor. John was seeing one, wasn’t he? I bet she could help you,” Greg said in a soft voice.

                  Sherlock nodded the slightest bit and then shakily stood up. He didn’t say anything so Greg continued talking as he hailed a cab for Sherlock.

                  “Anytime you want to get high, I want you to call me or call Mrs. Hudson. John was our friend and so are you and we want to help you.”

                  Sherlock just climbed into the cab without a word and went back to Baker Street. He collasped on the couch the minute he unlocked the door and he began sobbing so loudly that Mrs. Hudson came upstairs. She was still wearing black and her heart broke even more when she heard the sounds coming out of Sherlock.

                  Martha sat on the end of the couch and stroked Sherlock’s hair until he fell asleep. It was all she could think to do to help the poor detective.

****

                  As Sherlock continued to mourn the loss of his best friend, John was in Russia, shooting his weapon more times than he had since the war. He had only been gone a week but he had eliminated nine members of Moriarty’s network and the only thing that made him pause was a news website from London. He had just been searching around, looking for any more possible contacts of Jim Moriarty’s, when he noticed an article about Sherlock.

_Local detective Sherlock Holmes mourns the death of his best friend_

_After the death of Dr. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes’s flatmate and partner, Mr. Holmes continues to avoid the press. However, locals around Baker Street have confirmed seeing Mr. Holmes frequenting drug dens and so we wonder: was there something more to the relationship between Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes? And is Sherlock Holmes using drugs to cope with his loss?_

                  John looked at the blurry picture of Sherlock and he could immediately notice how much weight the detective had lost. He wasn’t dressed in one of his impeccable suits either; he was dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, with his Belstaf nowhere in sight. He really was mourning John then and not in a healthy way.

                  John sent a text to Mycroft’s private number from his burner phone and said:

**You said he would be okay.**

It was only minutes later when Mycroft replied:

**I’m working on it. I’ve cut off his supply. –M**

**He’ll find another one.**

**You do your job and I’ll do mine. –M**

                  So John did just that, his new job. For three months, he continued taking out numerous members of Moriarty’s network and his next pause only came when he was captured.

                  John remained in captivity for eight days, which were filled with whippings, burns and even the loss of one of his kidneys after he was stabbed. After managing to escape, he found the one contact he knew in Syria and dialed the number. Thankfully, it hadn’t changed in years.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A character we all know returns and John recovers from his injuries with her help. After his recovery is complete, John gets back to work, ever so eager to return home to his detective. As for Sherlock, he continues coping with John's death and finally visits John's grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter this time, but the next one will be the longest yet. Hope you enjoy! :)

                 The next time John awoke, he was in a private room and he was hooked up to multiple machines. Beside him was Irene Adler, looking as posh and domineering as ever.

                 “John, darling. When I received your call, I was rather surprised. Thought you were dead,” she said, casually, filing her nails.

                 “Well, you’d know something or other about faking your own death, now wouldn’t you?” John said with a tense smile.

                 “Sherlock clearly doesn’t know. He’s been mourning you for months.”

                 John nodded and grabbed his medical chart off of the side of the bed. “He can’t know. I’m not done my work yet.”

                 She raised an eyebrow to inquire about his work but he just shook his head.

                 “Fine,” she said with a shrug. She was about to leave the room when John spoke again.

                 “Thank you, Irene. I had no one else to call,” John admitted.

                 She gave him an easy smile and said, “I would never miss the opportunity to dine with an old friend. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

                 John ended up staying with Irene for three days and then he disappeared again, even though he was still recovering from his injuries. He couldn’t stop though. The sooner the network was dealt with, the sooner he could return home and end Sherlock’s suffering. So he texted Mycroft.

**Where am I off to next?**

**I haven’t heard from you in nearly two weeks. What happened? –M**

**There was some trouble, but Syria is complete. Where am I flying to next?**

**Turkey. More details to follow. –M**

                  When Mycroft finally received the text from John, he had been ready to consider him dead and the sense of relief he got from the man being alive was immense. It was hard enough lying to Sherlock about his best friend being alive, but he wouldn’t be able to disguise his own guilt if John Watson actually died for his brother.

                  As for Sherlock, he was doing a bit better. He had gotten Lestrade to move John’s chair into his old bedroom and now he didn’t have to stare at it everyday. Although he was starting on cases again, Sherlock still had a hard time with the silence that followed his deductions. Lestrade had attempted to compensate by showing awe when Sherlock was completely and utterly right, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t have the bright eyes that John had and he didn’t give Sherlock that smile that always used to restart his heart. Besides the cases, Sherlock still couldn’t bring himself to visit John’s grave. He couldn’t see the plain writing that said _“John Watson. Brother. Friend. Doctor. Soldier.”_ and he couldn't bring himself to identify that cold tombstone with the loss of his friend. The tombstone didn’t do the doctor any justice and failed to describe the amazing and courageous person known as John Watson. He was so much more to Sherlock than those four words described.

                  He had tried seeing Ella, John’s therapist, but he couldn’t discuss anything besides his frustration. Why had Moriarty killed John over himself? Why did John want Sherlock to kiss him before he died? Why was he still unable to visit the grave of his best friend? Ella couldn’t give him a definitive answer to any of his questions and so Sherlock left. He never tried therapy again; he just buried himself in the work.

                  Finally, six months to the day John had died, Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson that yes, he would accompany her to the graveyard. It would be heart-breaking but it needed to be done. The band-aid needed to be ripped off.

                  After Mrs. Hudson said some kind words at John’s headstone, she left Sherlock alone and Sherlock kicked the grass under his toe.

                  “I know that you can’t hear me, that you’re just a body in the ground,” Sherlock mumbled, refusing to stare at the slab of granite. “And I know that, if you were here, you’d be disappointed in me. I tried to die, after you left me. I injected so much cocaine that I didn’t even feel the sting of the needle anymore. You would’ve hated that and I think that’s why I did it. Because, if you were alive, you would’ve come back and strangled me for doing it. But you didn’t come back then and you still haven’t.”

                  Sherlock leaned forward and touched the headstone. “I don’t believe in miracles, John Watson, but you were exactly what I needed at exactly the time I needed it, all those years ago. So I’m asking for a favour, John, just this once. Don’t be dead, okay? It’s not logical, it doesn’t make sense, but I need you to be alive because I can’t live in a world where you’re not alive.”

                  Sherlock took his hand off of the cold granite and went back to Mrs. Hudson without looking back. If he had looked back, he would’ve seen John, lurking in the shadows. He had purposely arranged a layover as he flew from the United States to Kazakhstan. In Kazakhstan, he would find one of the last five groups of Moriarty’s men. After that, he would complete missions in Mongolia, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and Bulgaria and then he would be done. He could go home. After seeing Sherlock alive and hearing that speech, John had just the motivation he needed to eliminate the rest of the network.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a year, John finally completes his mission is dismantling Moriarty's network and he's able to return home to Sherlock. However, the Sherlock he meets may not be exactly who he left 12 months ago.

                  Six more months passed before John finally completed his mission. After putting a bullet in the head of Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s lover and partner-in-crime, John boarded his final plane to London.

                  After arriving in London, John debriefed with Mycroft and was about to head back to Baker Street when the older Holmes made him pause.

                  “Dr. Watson, the man you’ll meet today, he’s not the Sherlock Holmes you left a year ago. All that matters to him now is the work and I don’t know how well he’ll handle your return. If he asks you to leave-”

                  “Of course I’ll leave, if he wants me to. If he had faked his death for a year and made me mourn, I would be furious. All I can do is let him know I’m alive and my reasons for being gone. If he totally and completely rejects me, I’ll understand,” John said, interrupting Mycroft.

                  Mycroft nodded and then John was in a cab, returning to Baker Street. Before entering 221 Baker Street, he ran a hand through his greying hair and scratched at his beard. There was nothing he could do to fix his rough apperance right now. All he could do in the current moment was walk up the seventeen stairs to 221B and knock on the door, which is exactly what he did.

                  “Come in,” Sherlock called, impatiently. He hadn’t had a client all day and Lestrade was out of cases that were of any interest.

                  When the client walked in, his footsteps hesitant, Sherlock didn’t bother turning away from the window. He just barked, “tell me your case and make it interesting. Keep out any emotions, if at all possible.”

                  John took a deep breath and then said, “the thing is, a little over a year ago, I faked my own death. I had to do it, to save my best friend and everyone else I love.”

                  Sherlock closed his eyes and his chest felt tight as he listened to the familiar voice.

                  “So I’m afraid it’s hard to keep emotions out of it. Over the past year, I’ve been in over a dozen countries and killed more men than I care to remember. All to save this one man.”

                  Sherlock finally turned around, expecting to see no one, expecting for it all to be a hallucination or a dream, but all he saw was a short man with greying hair and a ginger beard. His eyes were tired and he gave Sherlock the slightest smile when he turned around.

                  “I don’t understand,” Sherlock stated, unmoving.

                  “That’s my line,” John said, his eyes twinkling with a smile. “I’d like to explain some more, if you’ll let me.”

                  Sherlock wanted to turn John away, he wanted to scream in his face and growl at him for leaving him alone. He wanted John to feel all of the pain he’s felt. But he couldn’t do that, not while looking into John’s tired eyes. The glimmer of excitement wasn’t present, his hair was greying and his laugh lines weren’t as prominent. This John Watson hadn’t enjoyed the past year of his life either.

                  So Sherlock nodded and gestured towards the client chair, since John’s chair had been removed months before.

                  John told Sherlock all about his past year, how he had never intended to fake his death, how he really had planned to die for the detective. He also told him of Moriarty’s network and running into Irene Adler. He didn’t mention that it was because he had been tortured for eight days and he also didn’t mention the new gunshot wound he had, close to his belly button. But everything else, he told Sherlock. And Sherlock remained quiet until the very end.

                  “You can’t stay here, John. Not yet,” Sherlock said, standing up and walking back towards the window. “I know you’ve had a terrible year but I have too and I’m not ready to see you every waking moment when I’ve done so much cocaine trying to block out your image.”

                  John nodded and he stood up as well. Softly, he placed a phone number on Sherlock’s desk. “This is my new number. When you’re ready to see me again, or just ready to tell me to sod off forever, let me know. Either way, I’ll understand your decision.”

                  John was about to exit the flat when Sherlock said, “wait.”

                  John turned around and looked up at Sherlock, a bit hopefully.

                  Then Sherlock asked the question that had burning a hole in his mind palace for ages.

                  “Why did you want me to kiss you when you thought you were dying?”

                  A younger John, a more timid one, would’ve blushed at the question, but this war-hardened, darker John just answered honestly. He said, “it was exactly for the reason I said. I didn’t want to die without knowing what your lips felt like against my own. I had been thinking about kissing you since the day we met and I didn’t want to continue wondering in whatever afterlife existed. I know it wasn’t fair to ask you of that, but I’m not sorry I did. If that had truly been my last moment, I would’ve been okay with that.”

                  Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes again. He didn’t open them until he heard John leave the flat. And then he swung around and input John’s new number into his iPhone. After doing that, he texted Mycroft.

                  **You lied to me for an entire year. You let me suffer for 12 months. Why? –SH**

**For your own safety. If you didn’t look like you were mourning, you would’ve been killed. I would rather have you miserable than dead and so would John. –MH**

**What happened to him? What did you do to him? –SH**

**He should be the one to tell you. Just know that while you were mourning, he was working tirelessly to save your life. He didn’t want to leave you, I swear that to you, brother mine. –MH**

 ****

            Sherlock only managed to go two days without texting John and telling him to come over. Within the hour, John was back at Baker Street, sitting in his chair, which was back in the sitting room.

                  “I want you to tell me what you left out the other day,” Sherlock said, firmly. “You were injured by Moriarty’s men. How?”

                  John nodded. “It’s better if I show you. Can you shut the curtains?”

                  Sherlock did so and watched as John unbuttoned his shirt, painfully slowly. Nothing could’ve prepared the detective for the damage he saw. Aside from the original bullet wound to the left shoulder, there was another bullet wound above John’s belly button. In terms of burn marks, they were scattered across his chest and back, but those definitely weren’t the worst parts. Even the scar across where John’s left kidney should’ve been wasn’t the worse. It was the whip marks across John’s upper and lower back.

                  Sherlock’s finger grazed one of the longer markings and John had to suppress a shiver. Aside from Irene’s doctor and Irene herself, no one had seen these scars or touched them.

                  “How long were you tortured for?” Sherlock breathed.

                  “Eight days. But I was shot at a different time. That was a few months later, in Bulgaria. Luckily the bullet didn’t hit anything important.”

                  John seemed so indifferent about all of his wounds, Sherlock noted. Before the fall, John had been self-conscious of the scar on his shoulder, seeing it as a sign of failure and weakness, but now he seemed completely okay with the dozens of scars covering his body. He seemed to be wearing them as an armour. 

                  Sherlock couldn’t help but to pull John against him, his chest pressed against the doctor’s back and his arms wrapped around John’s shoulders. He squeezed him, probably a bit too tightly, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that John was safe and alive in his arms.

                  John reached up and squeezed Sherlock’s arm as it wrapped around him. He stayed quiet until he felt a wetness on his shoulder, which was where Sherlock’s face was buried.

                  “Sherlock, love, it’s okay. I’m okay,” John said, turning around to look at the detective.

                  “It is now,” Sherlock mumbled back, hugging John once more.

                  John hugged him back, rubbing Sherlock’s back as he did so. It was ten minutes before Sherlock pulled away.

                  “You did so much to save me, endured so much, and all I did was try to kill myself with cocaine,” Sherlock noted, quietly.

                  John just held him, unable to comment on Sherlock's apparent suicidal tendencies. He couldn't guarantee that his reaction to Sherlock's death wouldn't be similar.

                  “Don’t leave again. Not Baker Street, not London, and especially not me,” Sherlock whispered, his nose buried in John's shoulder.

                  John pulled away a bit to slip his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and then he said, “never again, Sherlock, I promise. For as long as you’ll have me, I’ll be here.”

                  Sherlock pressed forward and kissed John. He didn’t even think about the possible rejection he could face or how their last kiss had ended. He just wanted John here, alive and safe forever. He wanted to drown in John's scent and his taste. He wanted nothing else but this moment, in John's arms.

                  John could feel the desperation in Sherlock’s kiss and, to be honest, he felt just as desperate. The thought of possibly kissing Sherlock again was what had gotten him through the torture and the year or isolation. And now, here he was, kissing the detective with more enthusiasm than he had ever displayed before.

                  When Sherlock pulled away with a gasp, he said to John, “this is what I want, forever. I want to kiss you and all of your scars and I want you to share my bed and my life. Please don't leave Baker Street, not again, not without me.”

                  John nodded, in eager agreement. “Of course, Sherlock. I love you.”

                  Sherlock kissed him again and said, in between rough kisses, “I love you, John Watson.”

                  After that, John kept his promise to Sherlock. He stayed and didn’t dare leave Baker Street again, not without the full intent of coming home to his genius boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Thank you so much for reading this story I wrote and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you want me to continue posting my fanfics, let me know and I'll be happy to oblige :)


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